


Her Dearest Friend

by driedraspberry



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-11 08:05:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3320129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/driedraspberry/pseuds/driedraspberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>WestAllen AU inspired by Jane Austen's Emma.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's a bit early for WestAllen Regency Month, but if I finish this by then, I'll tackle another Jane Austen couple for inspiration.

 

Iris lifted her skirts and with a loud cry flew across the courtyard, running as fast as her new heels would allow.

Mrs. West had scarcely stepped out of the carriage when Iris, in her flurry of floral skirts and fraying brown curls, stumbled in front of her.

“Iris? My good—”

“Sister!” Iris threw her arms around Mrs. West, wrapping her in a tight embrace. “My god, it’s good to see you!”

Mrs. West chuckled, eventually prying Iris off her long enough to get a good look at her. “It’s good to see you too, Sister. But my,” her fingertips tenderly felt Iris’ cool cheeks, “you’re looking thin, Love. Are you getting enough sleep?”

Iris swatted her hand away and frowned. “Father has been writing to you about me, hasn’t he? Well, don’t believe a word he says—I’m perfectly fine. In fact, I couldn’t be better.”

It was very typical of her father to believe that the smallest alteration in her appearance or mood was evidence of some deadly disease. That she could drop dead at any moment, without a warning. Though tiresome, his views weren’t completely unfounded—Iris had much sympathy for him because, after all, her mother had unexpectedly fallen ill, dying mere days later. Iris had been six then. She was twelve when Rudolph, her older brother, married Mary Allen, now Mrs. West. Soon after, Rudolph and Mary moved to London and Iris was all her father had left.

At the time, Iris had vowed to herself that she would never leave her father. It was a promise she intended to keep, however difficult and controlling he could be. Of course, that meant Iris would never marry and move away, but she believed that a small sacrifice as she loved her father dearly and believed that no man’s affections for her could match his.

Mary shook her head, smiling. “I’m only teasing. Though, I do wish he had told me how unusually lovely you’ve become. Far more beautiful than I remember.”

And just then, Rudolph stepped out of the carriage and upon seeing Iris, he threw out his arms crying, “Little sister!” He was tall and incredibly broad-shouldered, strong enough that without meaning to he lifted Iris off the ground as they embraced.

“Where is he?” Iris said, her nails digging into the cool material of his coat. “You didn’t leave him home, did you? You promised, Rudy!”

Laughing he threw his head back, gesturing towards the inside of the carriage. And, before Iris could stick her head inside, a large, plainly dressed woman shuffled herself outside. Carefully descending down the two steps. In her arms was the darling, little thing. Dressed smartly in a lace-trimmed onesie. 

Iris squealed, her eyes darting between her brother and his wife for the unnecessary confirmation.

“Iris, this is your nephew, Wally.” Mary held out her arm as though encouraging Iris to go ahead and take him from the nanny.

Iris didn’t need any more encouragement.

The nanny eased the tiny boy into her awaiting arms, and to Iris’ pleasant surprise, baby Wally kicked, squealing in delight.

“My, he is already a little gentleman, isn’t he? And here I was worried he’d take after Rudy.”

Rudolph laughed. “We have Mrs. West to thank for that.”

“Truer words have rarely been spoken.” Mary leaned in to brush a quick kiss over the top of the baby’s head where brown curls had already emerged. Straightening, she said to Iris, “Have you seen much of my brother as of late?”

Barry Allen was Mary’s younger brother, and her father’s heir. He had been permanently residing at his Donwell estate—a short walk from the West’s Hartfield estate—since the late Mr. Allen’s demise some years ago. And over the years, being a neighbour as well as family through Rudolph and Mary’s marriage, he’d become Iris’ dearest friend.

“No, I’m sad to say that he hasn’t been around very much. I don’t know who misses him more when he’s gone, Father or I. But I have made him promise me that he will most certainly be at dinner this evening.”

Mary exchanged looks with Rudolph over her shoulder and turned back to Iris. “Has he said _anything_ worthy of notice recently?”

Iris blinked. “He’s been a little distance, but otherwise… I can’t think of a single incident out of the usual.”

Mary seemed disappointed for whatever odd reason.

Iris was about to ask why when baby Wally squawked and spat up, staining Iris’s shoulder with his drool. Rudolph was quick to take out his handkerchief and clean the baby’s mouth, but it was no good for Iris’ poor dress. And while Iris didn’t mind it so much—she had many more dresses after all—these kinds of incidents would not be looked upon favourably by other members of their family. Those deathly afraid of infectious disease.

“We’ll have to keep him away from Father for now, at least until Wally charms him over…from a distance.” Her grin faded as she turned away from the squirming baby to look at his parents. “Father’s been grumbling about baby snivels and infections for days. He will require quite a bit of warming up.”

Rudolph rolled his eyes. “Yes, I expected as much.”

“That simply means we’ll have more time to sit with your Father on our own. And more time for you to get acquainted with baby Wally.” And, as cheerful as she always was, Mary nodded towards the main house. “We should probably hurry inside. I imagine he is as eager to see us as we are, him.”

And with that, they left baby Wally with Iris. 

“I think I’ll take him for a quick stroll around the gardens, and bring him to the nursery myself. Will that be alright?” Iris said, smiling at the nanny. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Baby Wally certainly seemed to like that idea. Iris kissed his head gently as his mother had just done, murmuring, “I think we’re going to be fast friends, don’t you?” She took his toothless nibbling of her knuckle as agreement.

Later that evening, following dinner, Iris got another chance to bond with her nephew. She brought him down to the drawing room, where her brother and his wife sat with their father. The only other member of their dinner party stood by the fireplace, unusually contemplative.

“Anything you’d like to talk about it?” Iris said, standing at the other end of the fireplace, smiling. “Or would you rather greet your nephew, Mr. Wally West.” 

Mr. Allen’s gaze swept up and down, taking in the image of her and the baby with a look that seemed suspiciously like longing. But that couldn’t be, could it? Mr. Allen couldn’t really long to have children. It didn’t seem right. It didn’t seem right to imagine him married. Was he really thinking about it? Was Mrs. Weston right about his affection for Felicity Smoak? Iris disliked the idea of him married to anyone, let alone Miss Smoak.

Ignoring her unpleasant wondering, Iris lowered her head to kiss baby Wally’s forehead and cheeks. “Quite the handsome gentleman, isn’t he?”

“He looks rather fetching in his aunt’s arms.”

Iris looked up, and the intensity of Barry’s gaze made her blush. “Will you sit with us?”

Barry inclined his head and led them to a sofa near the fire, a distant away from the rest of their family.

“Well then,” Iris said, settling the baby between them. “What’s your assessment of your heir, Mr. Allen?”

“My heir?” And when she didn’t answer, he dropped his head. “You presume I won’t have children of my own?”

The ill sensation in Iris’ stomach that had come to be when she first saw him looking at her and the baby longingly returned. It couldn’t be, could it? He couldn’t really be serious about marring Felicity. He couldn’t be. She was an ill match for him, so utterly ill—they were all well acquainted with her mother, after all. 

But instead of expressing any of that, Iris forced a smile. “My, my, Mr. Allen. Shall I wish you joy?”

“Wish me joy?” He blinked at her. “Oh, you mean—”

“But I can’t. I—I simply can’t wish you joy until you’ve heard what I have to say regarding the matter.”

He blinked twice more, opened his mouth to say something, but in the end decided to gesture for her to simply continue.

Taking a deep breath in, Iris said, “I do think that as your friend it is my duty to provide you with sound advice, the nature of which might be unpleasant to your ears as charmed as you are by the object of your affections. But nevertheless, as your friend I will advise you that this is a most improper decision. Miss Smoak is lovely, to be sure. And she’s a darling, of course. But I am certain that her sweet, easily persuadable tempers will bore you in time. Perhaps it would be wise to contemplate this decision for some time before it’s—before you trap yourself and Miss Smoak in a most undesirable marriage.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but again, he didn’t seem to find the right words.

Iris’ face heated worse than before. “It brings me no pleasure to stand in the way of your joy, but I cannot help but worry for the future of your happiness. And what kind of friend would I be if I can’t speak truthfully to you?”

His eyebrow jumped at her mention of truthfulness, and he nodded absently.

But Iris wasn’t being entirely truthful. She’s omitted her concern about her own future happiness in regards to this matter. Because as selfless as Iris liked to believe herself, the thought of Mr. Allen married to another, forced to spend his evenings with his own family instead of at the West house was the part most painful to her.

“Furthermore, there is something I must tell you. I didn’t want mention it, but if you are serious about pursuing Miss Smoak, you should know that Mr. Queen seems to think that she is secretly beheld to another. That she may even be secretly engaged to this mystery man. I don’t want you to harbour hopes of something that could never—” 

“I harbour no hopes. Not for Miss Smoak.”

At first, Iris wasn’t sure she had heard him right. But his smile, more amused than concerned, confirmed it. “You mean you’re not in love with—?”

“Not with Miss Smoak. In fact, I have no idea where you got the notion that I have any romantic feelings for her. As handsome as she is—and charming too, I suppose—her tempers are too accommodating as you said. I prefer less obliging spirits in my wife, perhaps someone stubborn to a reasonable measure. And quick witted, if not quite a lover of books.”

Iris laughed, so very relieved. “I couldn’t have thought of a worst match. I’m so utterly delighted that your heart is more reasonable than most men’s.”

His smile disappeared then.

Oh? What did that mean? Was he in love with another? A woman Iris had not suspected? But how could he be? Iris was certain she would know it. As she’d known Miss Smoak would not become the future Mrs. Allen. Whatever Mrs. Weston said.

Still avoiding her gaze, he eased the baby onto his lap. And if baby Wally had been pleased to be held by his aunt, he was ecstatic to be held by his uncle—giggling, spitting up, and flexing his little fingers to grab at every feature on Mr. Allen’s face.

For a moment, Iris forgot everything, including her plans to remain unmarried for all of her life.

For just that tiny moment, a secret moment she would share with no one, she imagined that the baby in Mr. Allen’s arms was hers— _theirs_. She imagined that this was an evening like any, with them and their son. And that she would sneak a chaste kiss from Mr. Allen, just as Mary did from Rudolph when she thought no one watched.

But Iris knew that she didn’t need a husband. Not as long as she had Mr. Allen as her dear friend. Not as long as he frequented the West manor and delighted her and her father’s evenings.

“What is that smile for? If I may ask?”

Iris ran a loving hand over baby Wally’s curls and met Mr. Allen’s eyes. “I was only thinking that he looks rather fetching in his uncle’s arms. Don’t you think?”

He returned her smile, the reflection of candlelight suddenly extra bright in his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

For days following Rudolph and Mary’s return to London, Iris stalked about cheerlessly, even for the company of her dear friend Caitlin Snow. Her spirits, however, improved greatly one afternoon while having tea at the Weston’s.

Later that day, Iris skipped past the front entrance at Hartfield, undoing her bonnet ribbons as she hurried along. In the lounge, she found her father snoozing in his usual chair—the one closest to the fireplace. A leather-cased book left discarded on his lap.

Thankfully, Mr. West was not alone and Iris wouldn’t be forced to keep such delightful news to herself after practically sprinting home. 

At the writing table by the window, Mr. Allen sat crouched over what seemed like a very serious letter. 

Careful to keep her steps quiet, despite the difficulty of containing her utter joy, Iris snuck around Mr. Allen and into the adjacent sofa seat. She leaned towards him, her head tilting to sneak a peek, and whispered, “That looks rather pertinent. Is it business? Or is it something much more intriguing?” 

Taken by surprise, Mr. Allen dropped his pen. And knocked over the inkbottle— _nearly_ knocked it over. Had he hit it a hair harder, his papers would’ve been ruined.Hissing a soft curse, he glanced up, wide-eyed. “Iris… What are you doing home so soon?”

Iris was about to tease him about being frightened of her company, but thought better of it when she noticed his deep flush. Perhaps the matter at hand, whatever he was writing and whomever to, was actually of importance. In that case… Iris hung her head, ashamed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t meant to be such great inconvenience. I didn’t think—” 

He said her name again and with such tenderness that Iris’ troubled conscious was immediately eased. And if there was any doubt, his assurance that she was not—and would never be—an inconvenience to him set her straight. 

He wasn’t cross with her.

Everything was alright in the world. 

And when she looked up again he was smiling, his pale eyes brimming with friendly affection. “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have blamed you for—uh, never mind. I—I didn’t mean to ruin your cheery disposition. I’m sorry if I have. But I’ve brought something with me that may make up for my acting irritable.” He dug into his coat pocket and pulled out a small bundle.

Iris snatched it, softly crying, “Is this—it is, isn’t it?”

It was.

Apple puffs!

Iris’ very favorite.

And, to her great anguish, they’d long been prohibited from the kitchens at Hartfield. They were apparently too rich, which meant they were a mortal danger according to her father.

Mr. Allen’s lips twitched with obvious amusement from watching her wolf down one. And then a second. Knowing her as long as he did, he knew it was pertinent that she finished the treat quickly, in case her father woke and caught her amidst what he’d call a reprehensible act due to the risks to her health. 

Cleaning her sticky fingers with the handkerchief Mr. Allen handed her, Iris smiled. “Now that I’m properly satiated, I must share with you my happy news.”

He hummed softly in anticipation. Though, knowing him for as long as she had, Iris suspected that it wasn’t exactly happy anticipation, but rather in dread.

She wasn’t sure what to make of it, so she merely continued, watching his reaction closely. “Now that Mr. Queen has returned, the Westons will be hosting a ball in a fortnight. In Mr. Queen’s honor, naturally. Doesn’t that sound delightful?”

Mr. Allen’s once amused demeanor changed into something much more constrained. He attempted a smile—poorly—and muttered something about being utterly delighted. So, so delighted.

Iris sighed and stopped herself short of chucking the dirty handkerchief at his face—it would’ve been most un-lady like if she had. Even more so than wolfing down apple puffs. “I don’t know why you have to be so unenthusiastic. Am I to suppose you won’t be attending?”

“Oh, I will accept Mr. Weston’s invitation when it arrives.” And cheerlessly, he stretched, leaning back in his seat and looking even glummer than before. “But I will not dance. I don’t enjoy dancing and I’m not good at it.”

Iris rolled her eyes. “You’ll never get good at it if you don’t try. And it’s not as thought we get many opportunities to dance here.”

“All the better.”

Iris might’ve argued this point if it wasn’t at the risk of unceremoniously waking her father. So, uncharacteristic as it was, she let the subject go. Taking out her frustration instead on skirts by unnecessarily smoothening them. 

Mr. Allen twisted ever so slightly in his chair, frowning. “I don’t suppose I’m marked down on your dance card, am I? Though, I can guess who is.”

“If you mean Mr. Queen, there’s nothing romantic between us.” But then, Iris clamped her jaw. She wasn’t sure why she had felt the need to point that out. It wasn’t anyone’s business, certainly not Mr. Allen’s. 

Though, having heard that, Mr. Allen’s expression softened. “I wouldn’t advise it. His reputation with women isn’t exactly admirable.”

But he seemed to have realized his mistake having seen Iris’ mortified reaction.

“I would ask you not to speak of my friend in that way. It’s quite unbecoming.”

“Yes, you’re right.” Mr. Allen very nearly knocked over the inkbottle yet again, and sighed a great breath of relief when he caught it again, before injury. “I, uh, shouldn’t have spoken of that.”

And before Iris could utter anything to mend this awkward turn in their conversation, he was up on his feet and shuffling away, muttering something about a meeting with that farmer, Mr. Raymond.

The oddest part was, that the next time Iris would see him would be at the ball. A thing she didn’t enjoy at all as she terribly missed his company in the short days he was missing from her life.

 

* * *

 

“Everything here is so beautiful,” Miss Snow breathed, her eyes darting around the ballroom. “I can’t remember a more special eve.” 

Iris smiled and patted her friend’s gloved hand. “And we are going to have a lovely—oh look! Mr. Queen.”

Miss. Snow's forehead lined, her eyes widening suggestively.

Iris answer the silent question with a slight grin and said in hurried, hushed tones, “I’ve contemplated the matter thoroughly and realized that no, I’m not even a little bit in love with Mr. Queen. He’s handsome and… _intriguing_. But he is rather glum. Now I don’t want a husband, but if I did, I’d like his disposition to be little less dreary.” 

Miss Snow laughed softly and before Iris could stop her, she said, “Yes, Mr. Queen is rather dreary, isn’t he?”

“Dreary?” Mr. Queen said, having finally reached them. “That is not a compliment I often hear.”

Miss Snow’s peach complexion became beet red. Her lips flapped soundless, trying to come up with some elegant solution to their current predicament to no avail. 

“You’ve misheard, Mr. Queen,” Iris said smoothly, her smile drawing his attention away from Miss Snow. “We were just talking about how handsome you look in your new coat. The green is so complementary on you. Fetching, isn’t it, Caitlin dear?” 

“Very fetching,” Miss Snow squeaked, her color as red as ever.

Mr. Queen accepted the compliment with a laugh. “I’m nowhere near as handsome as you two ladies. And my coat is not as fine as your lovely dresses.” Then he stepped closer to Iris and held out his hand, which she accepted after a quick glance at Miss Snow. “Miss West, I came over to ask if you’d honor me with the first dance.” 

“Of course, I’d love to, Mr. Queen.” 

But instead of pursuing further conversation, Mr. Queen merely excused himself. Exchanging surprised looks with Miss Snow, Iris watched from afar as he closed in on Miss Smoak and her mother, suddenly more animated than she’d ever recalled him. 

“You’re not disappointed, are you?” 

Iris twisted around and seeing the curl in Mr. Allen’s lips, she frowned. “Disappointed?”

“To share his attention.” He gestured his head to where Mr. Queen was conversing with Miss Smoak, leaned in so he wouldn’t miss a word.

Iris was about to protest when she saw the curl in Mr. Allen’s lips grow and realized that he was merely teasing. “You seem in better spirits than I expected.”

“Well you were mistaken. I’ll soon have the pleasure of watching you dance, Iris. Why shouldn’t I be in good spirits?”

Iris smiled. “But I won’t have the pleasure of watching you dance, will I? Why do you refuse, Mr. Allen? You’re not ancient. You’re not ill. It’s a grave disservice to the young ladies that a young, attractive gentleman should refuse to stand by them on the dance floor.”

A peculiar expression overtook him, something of a surprised smirk. “I’ll be a disservice to any lady I ask. You know I can’t dance.”

"So you say."

He sighed. "What does it matter if I choose to dance or if I don't?"

"It doesn't." Iris tried for a smile that felt a smidge too tight. What she didn't want to admit was that, there wasn't a single gentleman present that she wanted to dance with more. 

Certainly not Mr. Queen.

But she had promised Mr. Queen the first dance. And that is how her night began. 

While her smiles were so wide they hurt, Iris’ eyes seldom found her dancing partner. Not nearly as often as they found Mr. Allen’s fine figure amidst the crowd of old men. He was tall and broad, so distinct against the stooped and bulky forms that surrounded him. And unexpectedly handsome, even from afar. 

Iris imagined Mr. Allen drew every young lady’s eye. She couldn't take hers off of him. 

After the first dance, Iris danced two more with Mr. Queen, and just as they lined for their third dance, a rather unpleasant incident occurred involving Miss Snow and Mr. Thawne whom, some time ago, Iris had mistaken for a gentleman worthy of courting her dear friend. This incident left Miss Snow in a rather terrible mess, red and trembling and so very embarrassed. Iris longed to go be with her, to ease her spirits, but before she could act, Mr. Allen was there, offering his arm to Miss Snow. 

Astonished, Iris watched Mr. Allen escort Miss Snow to the dance floor. She caught his eye and smiled, wider than she had all night. There really were no gentlemen his equal. 

Later, when they had a chance to draw to a private corner and talk, she thanked him for rescuing her friend. He waved it off and declared that he’d misjudged Miss Snow, and that Mr. Thawne would’ve been lucky to wed her.

“Yes, but Miss Snow was lucky to escape Mr. Thawne.” Then, tilting her head to one side, Iris grinned. “I must say, Mr. Allen you surprised me today. Not with your gallantry, that I expected. But with your fine dancing. You protest, and yet it’s true. You’re far from terrible.”  
  


His cheeks colored despite his incredulous expression. “Far from terrible? That’s a compliment?” 

“It is if you’ll accept it.”

He laughed. “Perhaps, if you dance with me?”

“My, Mr. Allen, I never thought you’d ask.”

“Is that a yes?”

Iris’ grin widened. “Yes. I’ve been hoping you’d ask all night." 

His eyes found hers and his lips flickered into a faint smile. Not a happy smile, but constrained. Like there was something more he wanted to say. Something eating him up.

But he merely held out his arm to her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I'm a terrible procrastinator.

 

The sun was too bright—irritably bright. Its hot glow ruined what, Iris decided, ought to have been a delightful spring morning. She’d left Hartfield’s drawing quarters to cool outside, thinking a nice stroll along the countryside would lighten her—as of recent—irritable spirits. But how wrong she’d been.

No sooner had she began her stroll that she ended on the path to Donwell, Mr. Allen’s home. Or to be exact, Mr. Allen’s empty home.

He was off to London again, visiting Rudy and Mary. He’d promised to back a fortnight ago, but business—and very likely, angelic little Wally—delayed his return.

Like always, when he was gone, the days seemed to take an eternity to pass. And the nights stretched that much longer. Iris so terribly missed him. She missed his company at dinner—filling their table with conversation and laughter, when without him, Papa and she let each topic die too soon until there was nothing left to talk about. She missed Mr. Allen even more later in the eve, after Papa had fallen asleep in his favorite chair. In those hours, when it was the two of them, alone, talking by the open window, catching the breeze in their hair and sitting together in perfect, complete silences—not uneasy silences, like the ones between Papa and Iris, which were more like pregnant pauses that stretched on and on.

Iris even missed looking at him. His bemused smiles. The eyes she knew so well. His fine figure, tall and broad, like the most important pillar holding up Hartfield, their home. It was true—and Iris wouldn’t deny it for a moment—Mr. Allen made Hartfield a home ever since Mary had married and left Papa and Iris alone.

Albeit, Iris mused, Mr. Allen did possess a few faults—very small ones. For one, at informal occasions he dressed a little dated, like a gentleman four decades older. And yet, thinking about him now, conjuring the image of him in his oldest and most priestly coat—the one she teased him over mercilessly—it was still a handsome picture. Mr. Allen was. Even in that hideous, terrible coat.

A pebble caught the toe of Iris’ boot and she kicked at it harder than necessary. 

She wished she had so little dignity that it would allow her to write Mr. Allen a lengthy letter, begging him to return quickly. And to promise to never leave Highbury for so long. To never leave her.

Unfortunately, Mr. Allen had set no date for his return, and Iris would have to suffer however many lonely evenings missing him. And so, stewing in such glum thoughts, she turned right back, knowing her stroll had been utterly useless.

By the time Iris returned to Hartfield, she was in a worse mood than when she’d left. For all her attempts at keeping in the shade, her skin was damp with sweat, and her curls fraying from the tight updo under her bonnet. Her unruly state made her dreadful boredom even harder to bear. 

It was good fortune that Iris wouldn’t be left without company for long.

Not a full hour later, after Iris had some more time to sit about, pretend to read, but actually stare at the words and contemplate her melancholy, the servants announced a most welcome visitor.

Miss Snow came rushing into the West drawing rooms, preceded by the quick clicking of her heels and her heavy huffing. 

She was a shocking mess—her dress was askew and her bonnet hung awkwardly to one side with the ribbons undone and wrinkled. Loose brown strands hung wildly around her flushed face, the flush a deep shade of red and dotted with sweat. Most alarming of all were her wide, darting eyes and the dramatic gesturing of her long, pale arms.

“Miss West,” Miss Snow cried. “I’ve had the queerest day! You will not believe it—I swear, what madness!”

And she went on and on, in hurried too-excited tones, about the madness that she’d experienced and its glorious conclusion.

Iris didn’t press her to explain, not immediately. Instead, she helped Miss Snow onto the fainting sofa and instructed the maids to bring her wine and cold water with a side of something sweet. Then, she tucked herself by her friend’s side, feeling her temperature. “You’re not burning, thank God.”

Miss Snow smiled. “No, Miss West, you don’t understand. I’m fine—believe me, I am. Only, I’ve had quite the thrill. You see, while I was on my way to the market this morning, I took a new route, to get more air, like you suggested, and I had the misfortune of coming across bandits—can you believe it? Bandits? Here? What madness!”

“Yes, oh my..." Iris covered her mouth and before she could say more.

Miss Snow continued, her pitch rising. “I was ever so frightened, but trying very hard to appear not so. Then, like my very own knight in shining armour, rides out Mr. Queen. His bow and arrow ready. Can you believe it? Mr. Queen, an archery enthusiast?”

“How quaint.”

“Yes, but so delightful! Like a modern Robin Hood, he came charging out of the woods, to my rescue.”

Iris smiled for her friend’s sake. And also because she didn’t so much mind the image of Mr. Queen in stockings, riding out all heroic. “What an adventure you had. I might even envy you a little.”

A robbery and rescue by a handsome, heroic gentleman would certainly elevate the tediousness of her own morning.

The girls sat about, discussing the excitement of Miss Snow’s day so thoroughly they talked of nothing else by the time they were called on to meet Mr. West for tea in the garden. Later that afternoon, however, Miss Snow steered their conversation elsewhere.

They’d returned to the drawing rooms where Miss Snow lounged once more on the fainting sofa, her favourite seat, but unlike earlier, and unlike other afternoons that the young ladies passed in similar drowsy fashion, there was a lingering unease in the air, coming from Miss Snow’s end. Iris watched her friend’s nervous fingers tirelessly comb through the fringes of the sofa cushion for a long while before she decided to approach the matter boldly. And so, in gentle tones, as if beckoning a timid pup, Iris said, “Caitlin dear, is there something troubling you?”

Miss Snow jumped at this suggestion, and quickly gathered herself again into the disaffected cool she’d mastered in her years at the girls’ finishing school. “Nothing at all, Miss West. If I seem preoccupied, it's because I'm still very much thinking of this morning and the great tragedy Mr. Queen rescued me from.”

For her friend sake, Iris feigned that she believed her. 

But a few beats later, Miss Snow let go of all pretences. 

“There _is_ something I’d like to get your opinion on, Miss West,” Caitlin said, her eyes widening in her usual failure at playing coy. “I’ve come to hypothesize that heroics are the recipe to a young woman’s heart. A certain way of attaining her favor, and often her heart. You see, the evening before last, I couldn’t sleep, no matter how hard I tried. So I got to reading. One of the old books my, eh, my good friend, Mr. Raymond had added to my collection. An old medical book. Entirely useless nowadays, but interesting nevertheless. You know, some healers believed that women, especially young women, are so disposed towards heroics due to biological workings. Fascinating, isn’t it?”

Iris hummed pleasantly. Old medical books weren’t her favorite topic, but she could tell her friend was building to something much more flavorful.

If spoken glibly, Iris wouldn’t have thought twice of this declaration. Miss Snow was rather bookish, but she did have very typical views on romance and marriage. And she often made similar breathless declarations on the topic. In this case, however, Iris noted the poorly concealed shyness with which Miss Snow threaded—an unusual thing indeed. Iris suspected this innocent observation was meant to lead to something her friend had intended to confide in her all day, waiting for the appropriate moment.

Nevertheless, smiling sweetly and in soft encouraging tones, Iris said, “I will agree there. Heroics are one of the most delightful traits a man may possess. A danger to any young woman who does not wish to be seduced.”

Of course, in Iris’ regard, gallantry was equally important. And an easiness of spirit. Broad shoulders to hold up a family… She smiled picturing the ideal gentleman. Heroic. Gallant. Easy mannered. Broad shouldered. It was the perfect picture of Mr. Allen.

Iris doubted there was any woman who could not be seduced by Mr. Allen should he choose to seduce her. It was a very fortunate thing that he rarely ever showed interest in the young ladies of Highbury, else he’d already be married and gone from Iris’ life. The mere thought made her shudder.

Miss Snow shifted in her seat and sighed, for the moment, not attentive enough to pick up on the journey Iris’ inner musings had taken her on. “Miss West, I must confess to the one thing I did not believe possible. An occurrence, I could scarcely imagine. But it has happened, and there is no use in denying it any longer… Miss West, I’m vehemently in love for the third time this year. It can’t be explained, it defies logic, but I can assure you that the feeling is so very real, and so very intense.”

Iris’ hands twined together on her lap and, carefully, she asked who the lucky gentleman was.

“My hero, of course. The most delightful, incredible man I’ve known since—in a long time.”

“Oh, yes. Of course. This talk about heroics. What else could you have been talking of but him.” Iris laughed, the sound ringing with an odd sensation of relief she couldn’t explain. “In this instance, Caitlin darling, I’ll refrain from meddling. But I will say, you’ve chosen well. Mr. Queen will make you blissfully happy.”

Miss Snow’s smile froze. “Mr. Queen? Who is talking about Mr. Queen?”

“But you said…” The words died on Iris’ tongue. The relief she had felt before vanished, and a sudden sense of anxiousness and tense disbelief replaced it. “If not Mr. Queen then who?”

Miss Snow’s smile came alive once more, and excitedly she uttered the words that reduced Iris into a dizzy spell, the likes of which she’d never experienced before. “The exceptionally gallant gentleman who saved me from the Thawne’s snobbery. Mr. Allen, my hero.”

Iris' hands tightened their clasp so much it should've been painful, but she was much too stunned to feel anything. She forced her voice to remain even and asked a most painful question, “Have you any reason to think that Mr. Allen reciprocates your feelings?”

“To be sure,” Miss Snow cried. “We’ve begun a friendship of sorts since that night, Miss West. And I do believe, truly, that he’s come to care for me.”

For the first time in a long time, Iris was rendered speechless, her thoughts at utter disarray. And though it shamed her to think it, for an instant there, she felt an intense dislike for Miss Snow. A single thought plagued her—Mr. Allen would never be so ungallant that he would intentionally mislead a young lady in matters of the heart.

 

* * *

  

Barry balanced little Wally in his arms, propping him up on his lap as if he could stand. The baby gargled meaninglessly and grinned a toothless proud smile, as though he’d just departed words of wisdom on his troubled uncle. And, despite his troubles, Barry’s lips curled at the corners, soon mimicking the toddler. “If I had your charms, Wally, I’d have much better luck in love. If only, eh?”

Wally grabbed for his face, uselessly flexing his tiny brown fingers over Barry’s nose and earning a laugh out of him.

The door opened from behind Barry, as Mary—given away by the creaking of her heels on the wooden tiles—joined him and the baby in the cramped drawing room at her London home.

“Wouldn’t you like one of your own?” Her head crept over Barry's shoulder, her neck stretching so she could kiss Wally’s pudgy cheek, which, like always, bore a string of spittle.

“Unless you mean to have a scandal on our backs, I’d have to find love first.”

Mary clicked her tongue, and turned so she could kiss Barry’s cheek too. “Oh, Bear, you’ve been sulking here for near a month. Don’t you think I would’ve been a lot less patient were I not perfectly aware of the reasons for your melancholy?”

Barry blinked, immediately thumbing through his mind, trying to come up with some adequate explanation. But when he met her stare and saw the all too knowing gleam in her green eyes, he surrendered. “How long have you known?”

She laughed. “Since Rudy first began courting me. The summer you returned from Oxford, remember?”

Ah, yes, Barry did remember. He’d been an unusually young graduate when he’d returned to claim his late father’s estates—miraculously young, at twelve years of age. At the time, he never would’ve imagined how quickly his lovely new sister-in-law would bewitch him with heavenly magic to match her angelic light. How she would bewitch him for then, and forever.

Sister-in-law, he mused. An odd title, as marriage between two such relations was not so uncommon. And oh, how he prayed he'd too would be one of those blessed. 

“That, darling Little Brother, is the color of love.” Mary pressed a second kiss to Barry’s, now heated, cheek. It happened anytime he thought of marriage and Iris…two thoughts completely intertwined in his mind.

Barry was spared from having to say more when another set of footsteps arrived at the doors. A stern voice followed their halt, calling Barry formally as Mr. Allen.

Mary lifted Wally off of Barry and hung back, watching with curious eyes as he rose to take the small envelope the servant held out to him. “From Mr. Raymond.”

Barry smiled and thanked the man, tucking the envelope inside his coat. Seeing Mary, his brow jumped and his smile momentarily flickered into a grin. “Iris isn’t the only one apt at matchmaking.”

And that was all he was going to say on the matter for the time.

Lucky for him, further interrogation was interrupted by Wally’s attention seeking. However, the conversation Mary had prompted reared its head again that eve in the dining room, following the clearing of the soup course.

Mary was ever so dazzling in the shimmer of her metallic evening dress under the candlelight, and so evidently brimming with happiness. And Rudy was as dapper as always. Like Iris, he took great pride in dressing in the newest fashions and looking especially handsome.

Barry adored his sister and brother-in-law’s company. He thought that should he be fortunate enough to secure himself a wife—if Iris could ever come to accept him—that they would emulate the Wests. Their colorful dining room conversations. Their casual touches, with a hint of sensuous need. Their…togetherness.

It was all too easy for Barry to picture himself and Iris like Rudy and Mary. They were already so in tune, so comfortable, nearly as much as their favorite married pair. And should they marry themselves, they would be even more in tune, their touches more sensuous. And perhaps they’d have a Wally of their own…

“Oh my, look at your color. I can guess what—or rather who—occupies your mind, Little Brother.”

Rudy laughed, fixing his arched brow on his wife. “Sweetheart, is there something you need to confess?”

“Ah, yes. It’s but a small matter, though a broken promise is indeed a broken promise.” Her lips curled into a too wide, uneven grin, the one Barry had also inherited. She went on to explain that she’d lost her patience with Barry. “I couldn’t stand to see him skulk about like a moody adolescent. I’d had quite enough—I don’t understand how you and Joe put up with it. For heaven’s sake, they are moving along at a snail’s pace! They will need time to court. To marry and enjoy themselves. And time to make babies. We women don’t have forever, you know. I want nieces and nephews before I’m grey.”

Barry choked on his wine, attracting Rudy’s restrained smirk.

“We’d hoped Mr. Queen’s appearance would’ve prompted a confession.” Rudy sighed heavily, feigning disappointment with Barry. “I’ve taken no pleasure in standing back and watching you shuffle your feet. But not I, Mary, or Father, thought it was proper to intervene, you understand…?”

Intervene?

“You all know?” Barry’s tones took on a high pitch, and his wine slopped onto the white tablecloth when he rested his glass. “Does Iris know?”

Mary laughed. “My goodness, no. You are both equally clueless… Ever the perfect match.”

“Alright, let’s settle and think.” Rudy refilled his wine glass and squinted at Barry. “Brother, it’s time. There is no sense in dallying any longer.”

Barry understood. But the nerves at the pit of his stomach protested.

“You’re gallant, Barry. But are you brave?” Mary’s little smile was encouraging.

“I’m not sure. I don’t think I am. But I can have a go at it…” In truth, Barry’s losses so young in life—his mother and father’s consecutive deaths—had always left him fearful of abandonment. And losing Iris' friendship was easily his greatest fear. He took comfort in knowing that, whatever Iris’ answer was going to be, the West and the Allen would always be family.

"I'll make arrangements to head out for Highbury in the morning."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter chapter, but important developments happen, setting up the next chapter, the conclusion of this mess. Sorry for all the delays. Flash is a roller-coaster of feels for me, even while it's not on. lol

* * *

 

 

“Bloody—” Iris let the curse die in a growl. She licked the dot of blood off her index finger and resumed her work. Embroidery was rather tedious, but unfortunately there wasn’t anything else to fill her afternoon. Her circle of company was rather thin these days. The Smoaks were special guests of Mr. Queen at his aunt’s summer house a few counties over. Mrs. Weston never seemed to find time these days as she now had a child to prepare for. Mr. Allen continued to torture Iris by staying in London, and without writing.

Iris stabbed her finger with a needle again and this time she growled a string of curses that her father and Mrs. Weston would chastise her over. Luckily no one was around. Not even Miss Snow. Of course, Miss Snow had called on Iris many times in the past couple of days. But Iris had refused her company by pretending that she were in the thick of a private, personal project.

In truth, Iris didn’t feel good about abandoning her friend in her time of need. But she simply couldn’t bring herself to see her lest the topic would turn to Mr. Allen and his affections and his intention regarding Miss Snow. A third stab and Iris chucked her needlework across the room. It fell with a sad _tud_ , and she immediately felt foolish for her immaturity and also, the ridiculousness of everything. Why in the world was she so affected by Mr. Allen’s intentions for darling Miss Snow? Why couldn’t she be happy for her sweet friend?

I’m a selfish person, she decided mournfully. Taking in a deep breath, she straightened her skirts and stood to fetch the barely began embroidery. Father was going to be unimpressed if she had spent her entire morning being unproductive. Worse, as she refused to leave the manor—in case she ran into Miss Snow and had to suffer through a conversation with her—father might get it in his head that Iris was suffering from some illness or other, and fret over her needlessly. 

Another deep breath in and Iris began again, stabbing the tapestry with an elegant prod of the needle. She continued this for some while, finally feeling like she had her tumultuous feelings under control—

She felt... _something_. It felt like breeze, a subtle tingle on the bare skin of her back. Her fingers paused, ready to rub her neck and down the stretch of skin along her back sitting on top of the buttoned back of her dress, when she heard it—Mr. Allen!

Iris’ body twisted around immediately, forcing her torso up and over the open window ledge, staring outside with wide eyes, searching the gardens for the source of the call. Was it really him or had she finally gone mad?

She heard him again, and this time she spotted him as he slipped past tall, sculpted shrubbery and into view.

Iris’ gasp became a laugh and immediately her right arm shot up, waving jauntily.

She raced to the doors, and even with her skirts held up, she nearly stumbled twice before she made it to the top of the stairs of the terrace overlooking the gardens. She got there first, watching Mr. Allen climb up to meet her. Caught up in excitement as she was, her heart was hammering in her chest and her breath came out in heavy huffs, making her a tad dizzy.

He stopped a few steps short of coming level with her and tipped off his hat, tilting his head back to look at her.

His eyes were green—so green—and bright with familiar affection. But his smile held a tightness, not unpleasant, but it caught her eye making her linger on him. On his lips. The full curve of the bottom one, sticking out like it was meant to be touched. Felt.

Like lightening a deep and sudden wanting struck her—she wanted to touch it. To taste it.

Iris wanted to kiss him.

The want was so clear, so undeniable. Its definiteness made Iris sway where she stood, and gasp for a sudden loss of breath.

“What’s the matter?” Mr. Allen held her hands, a step higher now, his green, green eyes staring into hers. “Iris, are you alright. You seem—”

“The sun,” she stammered, recovering quickly with a well-practiced smile. “I’ve been inside all day. The intensity—the heat… It’s a bit much.”

His long lashes fanned down over his eyes and he nodded before climbing the final steps and helping Iris inside.

But Iris’ weak legs didn’t recover in the shade, she wondered if they ever would. The realization she’d made wasn’t going to be an easy one to get past… She clung tightly to the sofa arms as he helped lower her into a sitting position. She tried not to breathe in too much of him, or linger on the warm firmness of him in the space he occupied. She tried her hardest not to think about how much, on top of wanting to press her lips to his to taste him, she also wanted to press her body against his, to feel him. To be held by him, intimately. Inappropriately.

Thankfully these most inopportune thoughts of hers seem to go unnoticed by him as he avoided her eyes and talked at length, betraying that some business caused him great anxiety.

“Iris, I’m sorry about the long trip. I should’ve written more, but there things I had to take care of. One important matter in particular that I had to discuss with my sister.”

Iris’ bosom felt compressed, too tight to breathe.

This matter wouldn’t be about Miss Snow, could it? Iris prayed Mary had dissuaded him, after all Miss Snow’s parents were completely unknown. There was no telling the appropriateness of the match. Why would Mr. Allen risk such a thing, after he so passionately debated Miss Snow’s ineligibility as a wife to any man of reputation? Was he so in love that he couldn’t see reason?

Iris closed her eyes, not wanting to look at him. Not wanting to betray her fears any more than to reveal her inopportune realization.

“Iris, I’d like to ask you for a favor.” He reached for her hand again, and hesitantly, Iris opened her eyes looking up slowly.

“Of course, I’m your friend aren’t I? What is it?” she said in a small voice.

A distracted smile spread across his thin face. “I’m having a picnic tomorrow at my estates. Just a few friends and neighbors to help me pick my strawberries. It should be a charming afternoon… I’d like you to promise to bring Miss Snow with you. Will you do that, Iris? It’s so very important that she comes.”

Iris nodded numbly and promised that she would in a steadier voice than she believed she could manage.

With a delighted laugh he squeezed the hand he held and brought it up to his lips, kissing it softly. The touch of his lips made Iris shudder—her desire to kiss him hadn’t waned a bit.

“I have much to prepare. One specific letter to write. And I promise, there will be a great surprise awaiting you regarding you dear friend Miss Snow at the picnic. I daresay you might disapprove initially, but I expect you will come to wish her joy in time.”

Iris barely heard him. She was too busy containing her tears, and by some miracle, she managed to keep them at bay until Mr. Allen had gone.

Once the tears had come, the refused to stop. Hot and bitter they fell, reminding Iris that she would be aiding the engagement of the man she wanted, the man she _loved_ —there was no denying that any longer—to another.

Not wanting to startle her father, Iris retired to her rooms early, asking for her dinner to be brought to her without any intent to eat anything. She prayed that Father wouldn’t call on the doctor. She wouldn't bear the embarrassment. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for how long this took. The show has been bumming me out lately, I needed lots of distance from anything to do with it. But I wrote most of this chapter a long time ago and didn't want to just leave it in my files and leave the story unfinished. Maybe I'll even add another chapter with them as a married pair if I feel inspired in the coming months.

Barry watched the young ladies, Miss West and her companion, descend downhill.

He smiled to himself, enjoying the fine morning. It was a nice day, as perfect as any to for bold romantic gestures. And today, he’d either rope in the woman of his dreams with a long desired proposal of matrimony, or he’d hang himself with that rope like a damned fool. But his sister, Mary, had convinced him the risk couldn’t be avoided.

And really, Miss West’s smile in the off chance she’d say yes, was a most worthy outcome. Worth any risk. 

Barry inhaled deep and long, enjoying the fresh cool of the morning.

But his easy cheerfulness didn’t last long—Miss West and Miss Snow were fast approaching, bringing with them the urgency of the task before him. Nervously, Barry fixed his hat, and for the hundredth time, in his mind, he rehearsed his bows and practiced the groomed wording of the things he was desperate to confess.

 _My dearest Miss West_ , he’d start. From there, he planned to list her many admirable qualities. Her cleverness, so unlike the bland bookish types that surrounded him at Oxford. Her warmth, bright and brilliant like the summer sun. Her charm, effortless. Her beauty…impossible to match.

To make a comprehensive list of the many topnotch qualities Miss West possessed, Barry would have to talk all day. Perhaps for many days, nonstop.

The odd part was how, though Barry found a number of objective faults in Miss West, things he often nagged her to improve upon, there wasn’t anything he would wish permanently altered about her. And, when he thought about her, even her faults revealed the fineness of her person. Her stubbornness, he believed to be a symptom of her strength of character. Her lack commitment to any one project, he supposed was due to her wish to do so many things at once. And her meddling in her friends’ affairs, he knew to be out of the great love and concern she bore for them.

All in all, Barry was quite convinced he’d never meet a finer woman than Miss West. To think she could say yes, that she could accept him as a husband… He shivered in anticipation.

As the ladies drew nearer, Barry’s resolve to confess quaked, weakening ever so.

From her pretty bonnet with its ribbons swaying loosely under her chin, to the hems of her pale pink gown, Miss West was like a flower, freshly bloomed. Enticing him to draw close and inhale her sweet air, to feel the silky smoothness of her petals. And the sun, bright and yellow today, grew lovelier by shining down on her and highlighting the gold tones of her perfect complexion.

Like always, Barry watched her in awe, not quite understanding how she made a fine day infinitely more so by simply appearing.

“Iris,” he called, not bothering to hide the sure to be lopsided smile stretching across his face. He had just enough restraint to force himself to look at her pretty companion, Miss Snow and attempt similar niceties.

“Mr. Allen,” Miss West said, and unless Barry was mistaken, she sounded a tad cold. She held her skirts and curtsied formally. “There’s a bit of land I quite want to explore. I’ll let you two talk, if you’ll excuse me.”

And before Barry made sense of her comments and the odd chill edging her manners, she was already rushing past him. Leaving him alone with Miss Snow without a single look back.

If Barry didn’t know better, he’d think Miss West was aggravated. Was she upset with him? But why?

He decided that whatever it was, they would sort it out when they talked. He’d search every millimeter of the estate for her if he had to. In the meantime…

“Miss Snow,” he said kindly, reaching out for her hands.

“Mr. Allen,” she said, breathlessly—Barry supposed the walk downhill had been too much exertion for her. He frowned wondering if Miss West had carelessly pushed her friend into partaking too much exercise. It would be a shame if Miss Snow fainted on him.

“Miss Snow,” he said again and this time, he dropped her hands. His hand slipped through the slit of his coat, producing a small envelope. “I’ve been longing to give you this. And I believe whole heartedly that it will leave you happy.”

She stared at him with widened eyes, not seeming to understand.

Barry tried to look reassuring and pressed the envelope into her palm, promising the sender to be waiting behind the far pear tree—to give the lovers privacy.

“I expect you’ll recognize the handwriting,” he said, his thumb skirting the curves of “to my dear Cate”.

And as if on cue, the far bushes bristled, signaling another who was fast approaching. A tall, very broad man. Dark haired, and even from afar, so very handsome.

Miss Snow’s gasp was accompanied by a deep blush. Her eyes which had been wide and bright were now dancing, repressed joy sudden alight in them.

Barry had his answer. It was like he had thought, Miss Snow was still deeply in love with Mr. Raymond. And without Miss West’s good intentions influencing her away from her heart’s desires, Miss Snow was quite ready and willing to become Mrs. Raymond.

Pleased, Barry smiled widely at Miss Snow. “Miss West will understand, have no fears. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find my own happy ending.”

 

* * *

 

Iris heard him coming before she even turned to see.

Quickly, she dusted the daisy petals from her skirts and tried to stand, fumbling at first. Then, with the support of the thick tree trunk behind her, she finally managed a modicum of something resembling a lady like posture. Never mind that her bonnet lay, discarded and too far for her to bother with.

“You’re not avoiding me, are you?” Mr. Allen’s call was pleasant, good-natured. It helped easy Iris’ nerves a little. But only just a little.

“Where’s Miss Snow?” She said as indifferently as she could.

Mr. Allen’s slowed momentarily, but he continued closing in on her spot of shade even so. “Why do you say her name that way—the inflection…” and when she entreated that indeed she had no clue of what he spoke of, he shook his head, and smiled. “Never mind. Iris, the point is, despite your interference, I’m happy to tell you that Miss Snow has at last found love and happiness.”

“My interference,” Iris said, her tones rising. “What interference? I may have suffered, but I’ve done so in silence. I’ve done everything I could to appear happy and supportive of my dear friend’s joy.”

Mr. Allen stared, incredulous. 

Iris ignored her hot cheeks and stared back in defiance. She’d done no wrong, not outwardly. She did not deserve this treatment.

His mouth flapping soundlessly for a second, Mr. Allen at last found his voice. “I—Iris, I haven’t come to scold you. I mean no offence, and I certainly don’t mean to be severe. Really, I’m showing off. I wanted to impress you with my successes at playing Cupid.”

The words seemed odd. Iris wasn’t sure what she was hearing, but they were not the words that should be spoken by an engaged man. And so, in that moment, Iris dared to hope that perhaps what she’d feared most—feared so bad she’d not had a wink of sleep all night—had not actually come to pass.

“Cupid, but who…?” left her lips fading in a whispered, “Mr. Raymond?”

Mr. Allen’s face broke into a ridiculous grin and his head bobbed. Eager and silly, but God, to Iris he’d never looked more desirable. He had dispelled all her fears, vanquishing them like some noble knight from a storybook. And for that, Iris wanted so badly to shower him with her favors. To be inappropriate with him.

But Iris was a lady.  A gentleman’s daughter who, somewhat skillfully played the violin, embroidered, wrote poetry, drew…

Iris’ arms wrapped around Mr. Allen, forcing him down. Her mouth pressed hard over his.

He was still frozen in place, stunned at her inappropriate display no doubt. And then, she froze too. For a second, before she regained control of her body and shyly untangled herself from him.

She wobbled back on shaky legs, staring at Mr. Allen in horror. “That, uh, that was not—”

He never let her finish. In a one step, he had her in his arms. This kiss was more elegant. Still eager and sloppy, but they were both participating at least. His nose bumped hers as they parted a little, seeking air, and he said, “I should probably say it first. You’ve surpassed me on the bold gestures, and I have catching up to do. Well, I’ll go… Iris West, I love you. I’ve loved you before I comprehended the nature of romantic love…”

 

* * *

  

Courtship, Iris decided was a most unnecessary evil there was in the world. In days where she wanted nothing other than to sneak off into the woods with her fiancé for sweet, quiet moments, she was forced to be dolled and play hostess to a never-ending tide of out of town visitors.

Father didn’t much like so many guests at once either. The only bright spot was Mary and Rudy's return to Highbury, and the ever cheerful presence, always eager and ready to help.

That morning, Mary intercepted Iris in the dining hall where she was discussing the wedding with the most noted Highbury florist.

A wicked smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, Mary patted Iris’ hand and assured her that she would take over her morning chores for her. And that, as a bride to be, she ought to enjoy some hours with her soon to be husband.

Iris was only too happy to comply. She skirted past every appointment, and slipped out into the gardens, in such a rush that she forgot her bonnet.

Her skirts blowing around her, she hurried to her favorite trail, knowing Mr. Allen would be coming along on his way to Hartfield. He’d promised that once they were wed, he would permanently come to live with Iris and her father, something all three of them very much looked forward to.

Iris especially, she could barely contain a warm flush at the thought of Mr. Allen spending his nights with them—with her. In her bed. Together. Waking together also…

Her mind preoccupied with such thoughts, she didn’t notice the arms that entrapped her until she’d been captured. Hot lips pressed to the bared nape of her neck. “Good morning, Miss West.”

Iris hummed appreciatively, urging him to begin towards their secluded spot, in a small nook surrounded by pear trees. 

Once there, when they were satisfactorily concealed from preying eyes, Iris slipped into Mr. Allen’s lap, immediately showering him with hot kisses, between which she complained on and on about the horrors of courtship and the months still left of this torture that she would have to endure.

“Two months, twenty-one days,” Mr. Allen murmured against her throat. His hand slipped under her skirts, caressing the now familiar path up along her smooth thighs until he grazed the slip of lace covering her most intimate parts. There he paused, kissing her neck as she swallowed thickly, hushing a needy moan. “Two months, twenty-one days. That is all. We won’t have to wait a single day longer. We don’t want to risk scandal…”

Iris bit down on her lip as his fingers slipped under the lace.

He smiled smugly at the immediate effect he had on her, and while Iris supposed such manners should be aggravating, his eagerness to please only warmed the pools of pleasure gathering at the depths of her stomach.

“Not long,” he spoke to the warm skin of her neck, his breath tickling her pleasantly, while his fingers attentively worked her even more sensitive parts. Turning her warm, melting pleasure into tight aches.

“Not long,” Iris echoed faintly, her arms now wrapped loosely around him in case she would become so much like gelatin that she would slip off and ruin her skirts.

The two months passed torturously slow, so much so that their abidance of propriety only lasted that long and not the twenty-one days still left. But that secret misdeed made the final days of courtship slightly more bearable for Iris. At least, she could smile and nod, all the while her mind was elsewhere, continuously seeking ways to find secluded moments for her and her very soon to be husband. The onslaught of dinners and tea guests and picnics didn’t make it easy, and yet, somehow Iris would come to find the challenge welcome.


End file.
